


Whose Flowing Outlines Mingle in their Flowing

by apolesen



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Developing Relationship, M/M, Poetry, Pre-Slash, See notes for full tw list, Sickfic, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: Garak is more ill-tempered than usual during their lunch-date and leaves early. At first, Bashir blames it on himself and the Earth poetry, but when Garak stop tending to his shop or answering Bashir's calls, he becomes concerned.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 11
Kudos: 126





	Whose Flowing Outlines Mingle in their Flowing

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: Skin ickiness, references to suicide. 
> 
> The title is a quote from P.B. Shelley's "Epipsychidion".

In hindsight, starting Garak’s education in Shelley with _Mask of Anarchy_ had clearly been a bad idea. 

‘…The rhyming-scheme is puerile, the use of metre is amateur at best, and the subject-matter is disgraceful.’ 

Bashir took a deep breath, as if it had been him and not Garak who had spoken non-stop for the last minute. 

‘Alright. You’ve made your feelings clear. But once you read more of Shelley’s poetry…’ 

Garak snorted. 

‘I don’t think I ever want to read even his name again.’ 

‘The man was a radical in the nineteenth century, Garak. It’s not like he’s propagating for the fall of the Cardassian state.’ 

‘He might as well, Doctor.’ 

‘Just let me show you one more poem,’ Bashir urged. ‘I can give you some options, and you can choose. There’s _Epipsychidion_ , which is about the intimate connection between two souls. _Adonaïs_ , which is an elegy to another poet. It’s often seen as Shelley’s best work. And then there’s _Julian and Maddalo_ …’ 

‘Do you suggest it on the basis of the title alone?’ 

Bashir shot him a look. 

‘No. It’s about two British noblemen in exile who visit an insane asylum in Venice. It’s a fascinating look at the ways the early nineteenth century conceived of mental illness.’ 

Garak pulled the napkin from his collar and folded it up. 

‘I think I have had enough of Romantic poetry for now. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.’ 

‘But you’ve barely eaten,’ Bashir said. Garak’s plate was still half full. 

‘Nonsense.’ 

Garak stood up. Bashir got to his feet too, stepping closer to block his path. 

‘Garak, are you alright?’ he said, quietly enough that no one else could hear. Garak shook off his hand. 

‘Yes, Doctor. Now please leave me alone.’ 

It was when he stepped past him that Bashir spotted it: a patch of white, just under his ear. 

‘Garak, wait…’ 

But he was already gone. Bashir sat down heavily and sighed with frustration.

⁂

The next day, Bashir decided not to come by Garak’s shop. He would have liked to pretend he was just being courteous and giving him space when he needed it, but some of it was for selfish reasons. He hated the feeing of Garak lambasting him like that. No, better to let him decompress, at least today.

Despite that, he could not stop thinking about that patch of skin. It had not looked immediately concerning, but it was hard to tell these things without time and a good light. Next time he saw Garak, if he was in a better mood, he would ask if he could have a look at it, just to be on the safe side. 

The following day, he sent Garak a message about the novel he was reading, but received no reply. When his message sent the following morning went unanswered too, he tried to comm him directly. He did not acknowledge it. Bashir’s diagnosis was that Garak was sulking. He’d done it before – considering it was Bashir who constantly got accused of being childish, he thought his older friend was much more prone to actual childish behaviour. 

He put it out of his mind until the day after. By his morning break, he had still not heard from Garak, and decided that the only course of action was direct confrontation. He left the infirmary and headed towards Garak’s shop. To his surprise, the door was locked and the security-bars down. _Perhaps he’s just out on an errand_. Bashir looked into the adjacent stores and up at the gallery. It was then when he noticed the Klingon chef, who was placing out tables in preparation for lunch. 

‘Excuse me?’ 

The chef looked up and grinned. 

‘Doctor Bashir! You’re a little early.’ 

‘I’m not looking to eat,’ Bashir said, coming closer. ‘I was just wondering if you’d seen Mr Garak.’ 

‘Ah, Mr Garak. Your _par’mach’kai_ ,’ the chef said. Bashir was about to say that it wasn’t like that (although he did not know _what_ it was like), but what the Klingon said next made him stop. ‘I haven’t seen him for days.’ 

‘Days?’ Bashir repeated. The chef nodded. 

‘His shop’s been closed for two, maybe three days.’ 

Bashir looked over at the shuttered shop. _Two or three days_ … 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’ 

The chef smiled and waved after him. He did not wave back, too preoccupied with his own thoughts. What was going on? It was not like Garak to disappear like this. Was that what he’d done - disappeared? Perhaps something had happened, and he had decided to quietly leave. It was not impossible, but he resisted the thought. He would have hoped that if Garak needed to leave, he would say goodbye somehow. At the very least, wouldn’t he make sure he had enough medication to last him a while? Then again, Bashir was not the only person who could cater to those needs. If Garak needed something, he could turn to more expensive but definitely less personal sources. 

As he passed Quark’s, he craned his neck, but the only patron he could see was Morn. Quark must have noticed him looking, because now he came over to the bar facing the promenade. 

‘Looking for someone special, Doctor?’ 

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘That is… Have you seen Garak, by any chance?’ 

Quark shook his head. 

‘No. He doesn’t come in here, as a rule.’ 

‘No,’ Bashir said in agreement. ‘You’re right. Thank you.’ 

He went back to the infirmary, feeling both concerned and a little stupid. It was silly of him to assume something so unlikely as that Garak had secreted himself onto some cargo-ship. Perhaps it was just that he was sick of his company. The best thing to do might be to just leave him alone for a while. 

‘There he is,’ he heard Jabara say. Bashir looked up and saw O’Brien coming towards him. 

’Hello,’ Bashir said. ‘Were you looking for me?’ 

‘Yes.’ O’Brien was frowning, his eyebrows pushed down and together. 

‘What can I do for you?’ 

‘It’s not a medical thing,’ O’Brien said. ‘But I felt it might be better to talk to you before I go deal with it, just in case.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘You know how we have systems in place to monitor how much water gets used?’ 

‘Yes,’ Bashir said, not sure where this was going. He had taken a bath the other day - was he about to get told off? 

‘Well, the system just sent an alert,’ O’Brien said. ‘The monitor in Garak’s quarters registered an output of about seven-hundred litres today.’ 

Bashir tried to make sense of that. 

‘What does that mean?’ 

‘His hot water has been running for about an hour and a half.’ 

His stomach dropped. He had been so busy imagining some thriller plot that he had not considered the other possibility. With sudden vividness, he remembered how he had overridden Garak’s door when he had disappeared from the infirmary, and how he had found him, emptying an ampoule of triptacederine into his carotid artery. He thought of the way heat could increase circulation, imagined blood mixing with water…

Bashir grabbed his medkit and ran. O’Brien called out in surprise when he barrelled past him. He did not care about precision, only speed. He pushed past an ensign and got into the turbolift. 

‘Habitat ring,’ he barked. ‘Level H.’ The turbolift moved. Bashir tried to catch his breath, but he could not relax. He willed the lift to go faster. Perhaps he should contact Ops and ask them to transport him. Then the doors of the turbolift opened. He broke into a sprint. He ran through sections one and two without looking at any of the doors. When he reached section three, he started watching the numbers go by. Eight-hundred and fifty three. Eight-hundred and seventy one. Eight hundred and eighty. Eight-hundred and ninety seven. Bashir stopped abruptly in front of the door marked nine-hundred and one. He put his hand to the door-chime and held it for several seconds. 

‘Garak!’ he shouted. He took his hand off the door-panel and listened. He waited for the sound of the door unlocking or some movement from inside. All he could hear was the thudding of his own heart. ‘Computer,’ he said. ‘Emergency medical override: Bashir one alpha. Chamber nine oh one, habitat level H three.’ 

‘ _Medical override confirmed._ ’ The door slid open. 

There were no lights on inside Garak’s quarters, but through the darkness, he could see the place was in disarray. The air around him was heavy with humidity. 

‘Garak?’ He saw no sign of him. The door to the bathroom was closed, but the panel showed it was unlocked. Bashir pressed the door-release.

His first impression was the steam. It hit him in a huge, hot puff of air, making him gasp. Then, a figure tore through the mist. Bashir could only make out details: the tatters that hung from the limbs, the eyeless face, the gaping mouth. It ran at him, bowling him over.  
‘Get out!’ it screeched. ‘Get out!’ 

Bashir scrambled to his feet. His medkit was still on the ground where he had dropped it, but he did not take the time to collect it. He ran through the open door, almost colliding with the corridor wall opposite. Pushing himself away from it, he punched the door-panel. The door to Garak’s quarters closed. Bashir leaned over, gasping for breath. He was still standing like that when O’Brien appeared. 

‘Julian!’ He hurried over to him. ‘Is everything okay?’ 

Bashir straightened up and ran his hand through his hair. It felt slightly damp, from the steam and the sweat. 

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t go in there, though.’ 

‘I need to talk to him,’ O’Brien said. ‘That’s the procedure. I have to let him know he needs to turn the water off. If he doesn’t, station security can get involved.’

Bashir sighed. Odo’s presence would not make this better. 

‘You’re not going to get through to him right now,’ he said. ‘If it’s really a problem, can you turn off the hot water to his quarters from out here?’ 

‘If you’re dead-set on me not talking to him…’ 

‘Trust me, that’s not a good idea right now. Put my name in the report. I’ll take responsibility.’ 

O’Brien sighed. 

‘Alright.’ He went over to an access panel and set to work. Bashir looked over at Garak’s door. Then he turned and left. 

As he walked, the impressions from inside the dark quarters were falling into place. In the moment, it had only seemed terrifying, but now, his analytical mind was catching up. When he came back to the infirmary, he headed straight for his desk. Starfleet Medical’s files on Cardassian medicine were paltry, mainly based on prisoners of war from the border conflicts of the past few decades, but he expected he would find what he was after, buried somewhere in the database. 

When he finally found it, even the first paragraph confirmed his suspicions. _Early signs include irritability, lack of appetite and skin changes, particularly centred on the head and neck._ He slapped a hand on his forehead, cursing his own stupidity. He should have seen this sooner. The more he read, the more of what he had seen in Garak’s quarters made sense. When he had finished it, he left his desk to find one of his Bajoran colleagues. They’d know what to do.

⁂

An hour after his mad dash to Garak’s quarters, Bashir was walking down the same corridor. Once he reached the door, he put down some of the things he was carrying to be able to ring the door-chime. Nothing happened. Leaning closer to the door, he said:

‘Garak? It’s me. Please let me in.’ 

He thought he could hear shuffling from inside, but no reply was heard. 

‘Look, I know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I can help. I’m sorry I came bursting in, but I was worried about you.’ 

Again he waited. 

‘I brought a humidifier and some _torsa_ root broth. Let me at least just drop these things off and get my medkit. Then I’ll leave you alone.’ 

The door slid open. There was no one on the other side, only darkness. For a moment, Bashir had the eerie feeling that the door had opened on its own accord, as if inviting him inside. Then a voice came from the shadows. 

‘How do you know about _torsa_ root broth?’ 

Bashir collected his things and stepped inside. 

‘Y’Pora told me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if there’s anything to the idea that it helps with the process, but it’s got a lot of nutrients and it’s easy to digest, so it’ll do you good.’ 

The door closed behind him. He stood in the dark, waiting. 

‘Would you mind if I turned on the lights?’ he finally asked. 

‘I’d rather you didn’t see me,’ came Garak’s voice. It was gravelly and hushed, like he had a sore throat. ‘But then I wouldn’t know if you turned it on.’ 

‘I won’t judge,’ Bashir said. He started to be able to make out shapes now. He could make out movement on the bed. 

Garak chuckled mirthlessly. 

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You won’t scream and run?’ 

‘Well, you did give me a bit of a scare.’ 

‘Even if I hadn’t… it’s not a pretty sight.’ 

Bashir took a step towards the bed. 

‘I don’t mind. I promise, I’ve seen plenty worse.’ 

He heard a sigh. 

‘Computer,’ Garak said. ‘Illumination to thirty percent.’ 

A dim light turned on. Bashir knew what to expect now, but he was not really ready for how pitiful Garak looked. He was nude, only half covered by a sheet, and lay curled up among cushions and blankets bunched around him. His face that had seemed so frightening in the dark now simply looked odd. The skin over his ridges had started to release. His eyes were closed, but the swelling under the eyelids made him look rather bug-eyed. Flakes sat scattered through his hair. Grey tatters covered his arms. From his chest hung a strip of old skin in a teardrop-shape that mirrored his chula. Beyond the old layers, Bashir caught glimpses of the new skin. Against the dullness of the shedded, it almost glowed.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked as he put down the humidifier and turned it on.

‘I don’t think I can dignify that with an answer,’ Garak said. 

Bashir picked up the medkit he had dropped before. It was still closed. He put it by the door and went to sit on the bed, moving a blanket to the side to make room. The report had mentioned actions remiscient of nesting behaviours, left over from when Cardassians had to endure this time of vulnerability in the wild.

‘When did you last eat?’ he asked as he unscrewed the thermos lid. 

‘I couldn’t say,’ Garak admitted. 

Bashir got a straw out, put it in the thermos flask and held it to Garak’s lips. Rather daintily, he sucked at it. It wasn’t something that came as naturally to Cardassians, Bashir reflected. Garak looked quite content when he let go of the straw.

‘Better than my mother’s _torsa_ root broth.’ 

‘That’s high praise.’ 

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘My mother was not a very good cook.’ 

Bashir laughed. Then he became serious again. 

‘You could have just told me you were shedding, you know.’ 

Garak let out a long breath. 

‘It’s not the kind of thing you discuss.’ 

Bashir rolled his eyes. He had gathered from the reports to Starfleet Medical that ecdysis was a taboo subject, but it annoyed him nevertheless. After the business with Garak’s cranial implant, he had hoped that he would start trusting him more, as a friend and as a doctor. 

‘Be that as it may. You had me worried.’ 

‘You have an overactive imagination, my dear.’ 

_“My dear.” Not “my dear doctor”._ Bashir smiled. 

‘Well, I’m here now, so I hope you’ll talk to me,’ he said. ‘Can I see your hands?’ 

Garak sighed, then extended his hands. Bashir looked at them each in turn. 

‘I’m just checking that the skin isn’t cutting off circulation to your fingers,’ he explained. 

‘Doctor, I’ve shed more times than you can count. I know what the risks are.’ 

‘In that case, you’ll let me check your feet and tail too.’ 

‘If you must.’ 

If the old skin on his hands had looked like ill-fitting white gloves, then the skin on his feet looked like badly worn spats. It had already released on the soles of his feet - not odd, considering he had probably been barefoot since the shed started. The exposed new skin was soft and uncalloused. His tail was less progressed than both his hands and feet, and Bashir did not like the way the old skin had twisted around the tail-tip. The higher humidity might make it better, though, so he decided to give it some time. The humidifier was definitely doing its job. His uniform was feeling rather uncomfortable. He loosened the fastenings of his undershirt in the neck, but did not want to do more. 

‘More broth?’ 

‘Yes,’ Garak said. ‘Please.’ 

Bashir picked up the thermos and offered him the straw. 

‘Your hot water got cut off, by the way.’ 

‘I noticed.’ Garak leaned back again. ‘I assume you had something to do with it? It happened just after your little incursion.’ 

‘In a way,’ Bashir said and went over to the replicator. ‘Chief O’Brien wanted to talk to you and make you turn it off, but I thought you wouldn’t appreciate that…’ 

‘I didn’t really appreciate the water disappearing either.’ 

‘We do live on a space station. The water supply is limited.’

‘Are you about to say that I could have just asked you for a humidifier?’ 

‘You could have,’ Bashir said as he entered a code into the replicator. ‘Humans tend not to notice humidity, unless it’s very high or very low. But that’s not the case with Cardassians, especially when you’re shedding.’ 

With a shimmer, a bowl of water with some washcloths appeared. Bashir took it out of the replicator and carried it to the bedside table. 

‘It can’t have been pleasant, if you got desperate enough to turn your shower into a steam-room.’ 

Garak snorted, but when he spoke, he did sound sincere. 

‘It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.’ 

‘You can keep the humidifier,’ he said. ‘I’ll log it as a loan on medical grounds.’ 

He had expected Garak to argue, but instead he smiled. 

‘That is kind of you.’ 

Bashir smiled back. Then he turned to the bowl of water he’d replicated.

‘The increased humidity will help, but some gentle encouragement might speed up the process too,’ he said. ‘I replicated some washcloths. I can soak it and hand it to you, if you’d prefer.’ 

Garak’s smile broadened. 

‘I think, in my current state, I wouldn’t do a very good job,’ he said. ‘I entrust myself to you.’ 

Bashir submerged the washcloth and wrung the excess water out of it. He took it in his palm, letting it shape a point between his thumb and index-finger. He put his other hand gently on Garak’s cheek, then started dabbing at the skin on his eyelids. Garak shifted a little. 

‘Too much pressure?’ Bashir asked, stopping. The report had mentioned that the eyes became tender when they puffed up. 

‘No. Go on,’ Garak said. As Bashir took up drawing soft circles on the loosening skin, he exhaled, truly relaxing. They sat without speaking for a few minutes. It was only when Bashir got a new washcloth and took Garak’s hand in his that the silence was broken. 

‘You don’t have to stay,’ Garak murmured. ‘You must have better things to do.’ 

‘I’m on a housecall,’ Bashir said gently as he applied the damp cloth on his hand. ‘Besides, you shouldn’t have to be alone.’ 

‘I’ve gone through this on my own for many years, Doctor.’ 

He smiled. 

‘I didn’t say you couldn’t. I said you shouldn’t have to.’ 

Garak smiled as well now. 

‘Well… thank you.’ 

Bashir looked down at Garak’s hand. He was not really holding it, he told himself. He just held onto it to make it easier to wash it. He let go of it and turned to soak the washcloth in water. 

‘What have you been doing to pass the time?’ he asked.  
‘Nothing. There is not much I can do when I can’t see.’ 

‘Really?’ Bashir asked. ‘You do know that the computer has a text-to-speech function?’ 

‘But not one that works for Cardassian,’ Garak said. Then he added: ‘And I do not care for the voice.’

Bashir’s first thought had been to point out that there were multiple voice-settings available, but then another idea came to him. He wrung out the washcloth, stalling. Slowly, he turned back to Garak. 

‘I could read to you. Maybe not in Cardassian, but…’ 

Garak smiled broadly. It made his face look almost normal. 

‘Are you trying to trick me into reading more of your Romantic poetry, Doctor?’ 

‘Not if you don’t want to hear it.’ 

‘Right now, I do not think I would mind.’ 

Bashir felt oddly light. 

‘Okay.’ He moved to get out a PADD, but then stopped himself. He remembered the entire poem, all six-hundred lines of it. Usually, that would not matter. It would be too suspicious to show off such a thing, and he would have pretended it was not the case. But now, Garak could not see him. He would not know if he read it from a PADD or recited it from memory. 

He turned back and took Garak’s hand in his. As he pressed the cloth against the shedding skin, he spoke:

> Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one,  
>  Whose empire is the name thou weepest on,  
>  In my heart’s temple I suspend to thee  
>  These votive wreaths of withered memory.  
>  Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage,  
>  Pourest such music, that it might assuage,  
>  The ruggèd hearts of those who prisoned thee,  
>  Were they not deaf to all sweet melody…


End file.
